


The curse of the lindworm

by Askell



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Vikings, Curses, Dark Fairy Tale Elements, Dragons, Fairy Tale Elements, Fairy Tale Style, Gods, Historical References, Ice, Legends, M/M, Magic, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Pagan Gods, Vikings, Witches
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-06-11 08:47:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15311823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Askell/pseuds/Askell
Summary: Death would come in the form of lindworm breath.





	The curse of the lindworm

**Author's Note:**

> The people of the JayTim Network and I were discussing Vikings, and so how could I resist? There will probably be other chapters, but don't expect them too soon because I'm still working on the Djinns story ;)
> 
> If you have reviews, questions or suggestions please leave a comment below~

A thick cloud of his own breath enveloping him, the young man barely felt the tips of his fingers, gripping the oar with all the strength he had. Black as the thickest oil from the sun-kissed countries of the South, the sea spread in all directions around the two langskips. Three suns, two moons, and yet no wind. Blue and limpid, the skies above did not bring any warmth but burned their skins all the same. Through the slits of the strange masks they had exchanged with seal hunters against useless trinkets, sharp spears of light still managed to stab him in the eyes. 

His back was uncomfortably humid with sweat, while his extremities were stiff thanks to the iced air. The night before, his roaring companion had been claimed by his ancestors. Since then, nobody had dared to utter a word. Not even a curse. Not even a look at the others. They kept rowing.

Their only surgeon was gone. 

If the gods had wanted to send a clearer sign of their malediction, they could not have. First Njord claimed their smoked fish as his own, then their captain as well. Now, Hel had walked the only man capable of mending their wounds toward her own frozen land. Mountains of ice kept shifting around them, cracking and groaning and breaking and collapsing with enough clamor to make a grown man believe in giants. 

Jason tried to remember summer times, the lush forests of Frankia, the searing heat of the Mediterranean. His mother’s touch. Anything to keep his jaw from trembling like an old man’s, from looking at the lavender tinge of his nails. To try to wiggle his toes. Next to him, an empty space above a chest which had seen many travels. Much like his own, it must have contained spare clothes, some personal riches, most likely a flask of something to fight harsh winters, and perhaps something from his family. And, of course, enough thread, needles, unguents and balms to treat their injuries. Now, all that knowledge was gone.

The man had studied in the distant city of Ispahan, which Jason had only seen in dreams. It was a place of questions and theories, of spices and gardens. Different gods walked these parts of the world, he heard. In fact, the surgeon had told the crew one night of the light-god and his prophets, which was unique like the god of the Franks, but different. Books, the man had said, book held memories better than any aed could. They talked without a mouth, and knew without a head, lived without blood. 

One day, he had traced the language of books in the sand for Jason, to distract him while the captain negotiated. They, like men, had many languages, he learned. That night, the young man had dreamed of the Biblioteca. Its lighthouse, taller than any building the Christians had yet managed to build, and more books than one could imagine. They looked like rolled up leather, to him who had never seen even one. Ages ago, it had all gone to ashes. 

Shaking himself like a wet dog, Jason tried to remain awake. He knew what happened to those who slept in such cold. 

They never got another chance to earn their place in Valhalla.  
A large block of ice descended in the water not too far from the boat. Drops barely had the time to land on their shields before freezing immediately. Fear churned his gut. As far as he knew, salted water didn’t freeze. A yell enjoined the men to keep rowing, as small waves made the embarcation dance. Jason was glad the expedition didn’t have any women. He knew all his shield sisters since birth, and would have hated to see them perish with such a lack of glory. 

Angry yells came to his ears from the second boat, which has sustained much more damage. He didn’t know these men very well, being people from a kingdom much higher North than his. Almost all of them were from the same family, one single line of red-headed, barrel-chested men with white shields. Two of them has risen up, gesturing wildly at each other while most of the crew at stopped rowing. 

Jason’s captain gestured for them to slow down until they reached the other ship. There, it became obvious something was amiss. If he hadn’t known better, he would have said one of the man’s eyes were glowing in the dimming lights. Soon night would be onto them. Their dialect was so heavily accented it was difficult to decipher, though the word ‘monster’ came often. 

“What’s going on, Pjetir?” yelled the captain, holding on to the serpent head of their langskip.

“His cursed magic is the reason of all our troubles!” answered a man with a nearly frozen beard.

“Do you need help with the situation?”

Jason would never know, because suddenly bright ribbons of light started to unravel over their heads. It became clear the man’s eyes glowed with the same magic. As he opened his mouth, a blood-freezing laugh echoed all around, bouncing on the iced fortresses. His hair had whitened, it appeared as their ship finally caught up. A horrific smile tore his face from ear to ear, dark rivulets of slashed skin painting his teeth red. 

Draugr, a small voice murmured in his mind. Possessed. Victim of a joke only malevolent spirits laugh at. His roar shattered the ice, birthing chaos and high waves, crushing men and turning hulls. Jason gripped his oar uselessly, legs asleep, refusing to bear his weight to fight. In a blink, the magic-mad man was on him, a bar of metal raining on his limbs. The strength was enough to break his bones. Filling his ears, the unholy laugh poured pure dread in the broken veins under his skin. 

In-between shameful cries, Jason opened his remaining, unswollen eye. Beautiful ribbons kept waltzing in the deep blue skies, the blinking shine of stars forming shapes he knew by heart. A dark figure rose behind the laughing man. At first, Jason thought it to be another mountain of ice, promising a swifter death than the hail of pain he was suffering. Then, the glistening daggers of razor-sharp teeth opened to reveal a core of pure fire. He closed his eyes. 

Death would come in the form of lindworm breath.


End file.
